Five Deaths of Ianto Jones
by rabidcrazygirl
Summary: We all know that Jack can die thousands of times and still be all right. What about Ianto? This gets Ianto's perspectives on five times he's died...metaphorically speaking, of course. Jack/Ianto. Totally fluffy, with some angst.


**So, we all know that Jack can't die. We know that he's died thousands of deaths so far, and come back from every single one of them. But did you know that Ianto has died, too? Five times, if I'm any judge (I'm not, but let's play along, shall we?). Of course, they've been more figurative deaths than literal, but as I'm the writer, I shall take certain liberties. Hooray, liberties!**

**It's a bit angsty, of course, but also (because I am a Janto fanatic at heart) it's got a helping of Janto goodness. Don't you just **_**love**_** those two?**

**Sorry if it's kind of boring. It's an idea that's been preying on me for a while, and I figured that I'd better write it out.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not even (sadly) Gareth David-Lloyd.**

**1.**

Ianto Jones had thought that he'd seen everything. He'd witnessed aliens and humans, chatting like the best of friends. He'd seen a tall man in a tall blue box appear out of nowhere, and he'd seen him escorted away like imprisoned royalty. He'd seen dinosaurs walking through the streets of London, and he'd seen extraterrestrial technology more advanced and dangerous than the brightest sci-fi writer could dream up.

He'd thought he'd seen everything. He was wrong.

The screams that echoed from the conversion unit tore little pieces from his soul. He wanted to scream with them, to call out, but his voice had been shouted hoarse, and it hurt even to breathe. He contented himself (as much as possible) with shouting inside his head. It wasn't hard—there was only one word he'd wanted to scream anyway.

_Lisa! Lisa!_

The young man's normally-impeccable shirt had been torn and dirtied by the events of the past few hours. It was stained with dirt and sweat and what he was fairly certain was blood. He didn't think about that. He didn't _want_ to think about it. His suit jacket was torn beyond repair. He didn't know how the tears had appeared. He didn't care.

_Lisa! Lisa!_

They had been holding hands when the Cybermen had taken her. The horrible battle between the metal men and the strange talking pyramids had been raging for what felt like decades, and the Cybermen had been horribly outclassed by the Dalek weapons. They had rounded up all the Torchwood employees that they could find and, pressed for time as they were, began to randomly select people to "upgrade." Ianto hadn't been selected, for whatever reason.

Lisa had.

Their feeble, organic grasp didn't stand a chance against the steely spacemen who'd ripped the pair apart without hesitating. Ianto could still feel the bruises on his shoulders where their iron gloves had dug into his skin, holding him back. His fingernail beds bled from where he'd clawed at them with no effect. And his voice was gone from shouting her name.

_Lisa! Lisa!_

And now there was a screaming inside his head that wasn't his voice. It was an answering call. Lisa's voice. The last thing he'd heard her say as the Cybermen dragged her away from him. His name.

_Lisa!_

_Ianto!_

_Lisa!_

By some stroke of luck, the Cybermen guarding the remaining Torchwood employees had stomped off, saying something about a doctor that Ianto was in no state to try to understand. Without a second thought as to his own personal safety, he'd darted off into the back hall, determined to find his girlfriend.

It was petrifying easy to find the conversion unit. The screams had echoed throughout the entire building, and he'd followed the sound with a dry mouth and hands that shook. He kept wondering whether one of the screamers was his Lisa, but the thing about horrific pain was that anyone who suffered from it sounded pretty much like anyone else. The sound of torment was universal, it seemed.

He ducked into a side passage just in time to let a pair of Cybermen pass him by unnoticed. He peered at the plastic sheeting that divided off the conversion unit from the rest of the building. There was not a single strange, blocky metallic shape outlined by the terrible furnace therein. They had all gone off to fight the Daleks. Ianto gulped. It was now or never. He cautiously pulled the sheeting aside.

He would never forget the awful smell the greeted him. He felt as though he was about to faint, but he conquered the urge and looked around him. There were a number of whirring torture chambers, but the one nearest him had fallen curiously silent. He took a deep breath and looked inside.

"Lisa?" Shock forced the name out of his throat, his normally husky voice grown rough with horror and pain.

She was lying on the ground covered in her own blood, and for Ianto, the world seemed to stretch and contort. She wasn't Lisa—not his Lisa, not anymore. Her limbs were covered with steel, the same of that as a Cyberman. He pressed a hand to his mouth as his knees gave out and he dropped to her side and it was as though a part of him had given up and died. For a moment he considered just lying down next to her until the Cybermen came back and "upgraded" him as well. But on his knees at her level, he could see the slight rise and fall of her chest. He could see her chocolate skin and her huge brown eyes. His Lisa. She was still in there. She was alive. He sucked in air. As rapidly as he could, he grabbed her under the arms and hauled her out of the chamber as fast as he could.

As he made his escape, even with his senses clouded by terror and relief, he could still hear the tormented cries of those who were not so lucky as his Lisa. He heard them screaming, and he couldn't help them. Even though he had Lisa in his arms, he knew that it was not enough. Ianto bit his lip to hold back his sobs as best as he could, and even though something in him was dying from anger and helplessness, he continued forward.

**2.**

Sometimes it seemed like the universe was collapsing in on him. He woke up at night hearing her voice calling out to him, just as she had before she was so irrevocably changed by the metal monsters. He tried to call back to her, but just as it had on that day, his throat closed up and he couldn't utter a sound. He tried to make up for it by crying, but that didn't seem to be enough anymore.

Lisa had been killed because of him. The entire Torchwood team had almost been killed because of him. So he wasn't useless, like Owen liked so much to imply. He wasn't useless by any means. He was just a _danger_. Not exactly a comforting thought.

Of course, every night he'd managed to hold the universe off. He'd been able to blame it on the Cybermen, on the Daleks, on his own stupidity. There had been a reason. But tonight…

Ianto Jones stared up at the black nothingness of night, resting a hand on his chest. It felt hollow, not like a chest should. He couldn't feel his own heartbeat, though Owen would probably just tell him that he was an idiot and not feeling in the right place. Ianto knew it was something different. The universe, that unending entity he'd been trying so hard to hold off, had finally collapsed in on him. His heart had stopped beating. And he knew exactly why.

That night he'd dreamed. He often dreamed, but it was always about the usual nonsensical rubbish (winding up in the middle of Cardiff naked or having his eyeballs changed into the fuzzy dice that hang from cab drivers' rearview mirrors). Or about Lisa and her lips against his whispering "I forgive you, Ianto. I love you."

The script hadn't changed. The cast had. He'd heard those words, but Lisa hadn't been the one to utter them.

That night, he'd dreamed about Jack.

**3.**

Ianto Jones had thought that he'd seen it all. He'd witnessed aliens and humans, chatting like the best of friends. He'd seen a tall man in a tall blue box appear out of nowhere, and he'd seen him escorted away like imprisoned royalty. He'd seen dinosaurs walking through the streets of London, and he'd seen extraterrestrial technology more advanced and dangerous than the brightest sci-fi writer could dream up.

He'd just never thought that he'd see Jack die.

Of course, when he thought about it, he'd seen Jack die plenty of times. He'd been shot and blown up and burned and poisoned and attacked by Weevils. But Ianto didn't think he'd ever seen him so ghostly-pale, zipped up in a body bag and shoved into one of the icy drawers in the morgue.

He was perfectly aware that Toshiko was watching him was a kind of skittish sympathy. Apparently he and Jack hadn't been so great at hiding their…thing…after all. But he'd brushed off her whispered, "Ianto, I'm so sorry…" and gone to hide in Jack's office.

It hadn't been the smartest move. The thing about Jack's office was that it was full of Jack's things. His trash can was full of old food wrappers that Ianto hadn't yet got around to emptying out. His desk was covered with some of the various alien artifacts he'd collected. And his coat rack…

And here Ianto did something even stupider than entering Jack's office. He walked over to Jack's coat rack and pulled down the long overcoat that his boss had always worn. With hardly a thought, he pressed it to his face, and the smell _("51__st__ century pheromones," he'd said_) wreathed its way around him. It was just enough to break down his carefully constructed defenses, and he sobbed somewhat uncontrollably, feeling as though someone was wrenching at his heart over and over again.

He'd always liked that coat. He'd just liked the person who'd worn it so much more.

**4.**

Ianto Jones didn't need Tosh's certifiable mechanical genius or Owen's medical degree to tell him that Jack was not coming back. He also didn't need Gwen's pitying smiles and Tosh's worried looks. He _definitely_ didn't need that one, "Listen, mate…" that Owen had begun to offer before Ianto's warning glare silenced him.

Those first few days had been rough. A rollercoaster ride of emotion. He'd lost his lover…he'd gotten him back, against all odds…and he'd lost him again. He didn't know why. He didn't know how. All he could imagine was that Jack had grown tired of the everyday fight to save the world and had moved on to bigger, better things.

Ianto didn't argue when Gwen took control of the team. Neither did Tosh. Neither did Owen, though everyone expected him to. The four of them fell into a tedious rhythm that was just enough to save the world without providing any of the old excitement or enjoyment. Even though he was getting eight hours a night, Ianto found himself getting more and more tired, and every day was more difficult to get through.

"Why don't you go home early tonight, Ianto?" Gwen had asked one night, watching his drooping eyes as he'd scurried about the Hub, picking up coffee mugs. "We'll close up shop tonight."

Ianto had agreed, despite the fact that none of them knew how to properly load the dishwasher and Owen would probably bail out on the two women. He didn't care enough to argue. He went home to his flat, well aware that everyone, even Owen, followed his retreating back with worried gazes.

That night he didn't dream of Jack. He didn't dream at all.

**5.**

Ianto Jones had thought that he'd seen it all. He'd witnessed aliens and humans, chatting like the best of friends. He'd seen a tall man in a tall blue box appear out of nowhere, and he'd seen him escorted away like imprisoned royalty. He'd seen dinosaurs walking through the streets of London, and he'd seen extraterrestrial technology more advanced and dangerous than the brightest sci-fi writer could dream up.

He just never thought that Captain Jack Harkness would ask him out on a date.

For the past day, he'd felt as though his heart was about ready to pound through his ribcage. There were so many questions that he'd been wanting to ask his old lover ("Why? How? Where?") but the opportunity to actually ask them never presented himself. And Jack wasn't exactly being forthcoming on his own.

Even though the team was faced with a city-wide crisis (Weapons? Rogue time agent? The tables turned quicker than he could follow), he felt more alive than he had in months—more alive than he'd felt since Jack had left.

_"I came back for you," he'd said_. Ianto felt his face split in a wide grin. Again he was back in bed, staring up at the ceiling of blackness, and even though he dreamed of Jack again, he no longer felt empty. He rolled carefully over onto his side. The handsome American was sleeping quietly, one arm flung out over Ianto's chest, just as he used to do. Ianto bent his head to carefully kiss his lover's forehead.

They might never actually get that date. Ianto didn't care. It was the thought that counted, he reasoned, and the mere thought that Jack had asked him showed that he'd put thought into it.

_"I missed you,"_ Jack had whispered, just as Ianto was slipping off to sleep.

The young man's smile grew even wider, if that were possible, as he stared down at the sleeping man next to him. _I must be dead_, he thought, _because I'm in Heaven_.

**I told you there was fluff. You didn't need to worry—you just needed to wait until the end! Did you like it? Review, please!**


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